Routine Deceit
by Guardian Spirit
Summary: The moment was approaching when their routine deceit would inevitably fail; when they would be sent on bent-axis, orbit elliptical and twisting until they collided with one another. Roy/Riza 100 challenge. General spoiler warnings for the entire series.
1. 97 If I die

Roy struggled with her jacket, trying frantically to discover the source of the bleeding. There was so much blood, so much... His hands shook violently against her waist, her stomach, her breasts. He couldn't determine a source, couldn't cauterize the flesh, could do nothing but kneel and hope and pray that _something _would stop the bleeding. Oh God, she was going to die. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

_"Roy, stop fidgeting," his mother chastised, smoothing a hand through his hair one last time, "we'll be there soon."_

_He watched eagerly as the train rolled by, trees dotting the surrounding landscape in a way he hadn't seen living in Central. He wondered excitedly what kinds of secrets lay hidden in their midst; wondered what he might discover among the soft colored grass that lay beneath the shade of elms and oaks. Would his sensei teach him to navigate the world of alchemy as the birds did the sky? _

_This was truly paradise._

Why had he let her follow him? Why hadn't she stayed with the others? He thought he could protect her, he thought... Oh God. But her bullets didn't work. Oh God. He felt her shudder beneath him as a shallow breath escaped her throat. Everything around them was red. Oh God.

_"Roy, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Riza." _

_Hawkeye's daughter was ushered forth, discomfort written plainly on her face. Roy scrunched his nose distastefully, eyes skeptical as he turned towards his mother._

_"A _girl_?"_

_His mother had barely enough time to react before Riza punched him._

He couldn't stop the bleeding, he needed help, he needed them all to stop fighting the homunculi and call an ambulance, do anything, do _something_. He clutched her body to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

_"Do you remember?"_

_He fought the surprise as she stood, her eyes stony amidst her soft rounded face. Of course he remembered her, of _course _he did. How could he forget?_

He watched in horror as her eyes began to lose focus, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Colonel..."

He clung desperately to her body.

_She yelled at him as she trailed him to the car, voice shrill in the relative quiet of the abandoned building. His mind played out scenarios, each one more morbid than the next. If he hadn't made it in time, if he hadn't... She could have..._

_His voice shook when he spoke, "I'm glad you're alive."_

_She stumbled, anger quickly dissipating. When he turned towards her he tried his best to concentrate on the softness in her eyes instead of the bruises that were slowly beginning to ghost her neck._

"Hawkeye, don't you dare close your eyes! Don't you dare... You made a promise to me! Don't you dare go against it. That's insubordination. I'll have you court-martialed!"

His voice was raw with his pleas, barely containing the desperation that bit at the corners of his eyes. A strangled sob escaped his mouth as he felt her body sag against him. No, he couldn't lose her. No, please God, no. No, no, no, no, no.

_"I forgot something."_

_He watched her carefully as she entered the office and reached towards the file cabinet, hands groping for something unknown. He committed to memory each subtle movement she made, wishing he could keep her there, in this moment until he figured out some way to wrestle her from Bradley's terrifying grip. She made her way towards his desk, straightening the forgotten files against the hard surface. Her eyes flickered for a moment something hesitant and fearful. "Please don't die."_

Roy wrapped himself around her lifeless body, ignorant to the shouts of the people around him. It didn't matter that they had been fighting Bradley, it didn't matter that the Promised Day had come. Every second of this was agony, every breath a razor against his lungs. His whole body shook as realization hit him, fingernails digging into her chest that did not rise with breath. Riza was dead.

Riza was dead.

_"Promise me something, Hawkeye."_

_She stared at him curiously. "Sir?"_

_"If we survive this... Promise you'll be there with me. Promise me that we'll grow old together. If you give me that, if there's you at the end of it all then I think, I know, I can survive this."_

_Her gaze lingered sadly on him for a moment and she hesitated before she spoke, "Sir, if I die..."_

_"No," he cut her off forcefully, waving the notion away. It was unacceptable, to think that she'd die, to think that this world could continue on without Riza Hawkeye in it. He would not allow it._

_"But Colonel-" he pressed his hand to her mouth, silencing her protests. She frowned._

_"You cannot die, Hawkeye. That's an order. If you disobey it I will be very displeased."_

_His eyes strayed for a moment to her curves and he wished desperately to take her in his arms. If I die..._

_"Riza, please. Promise me."_

_She sighed, "alright, yes. I promise," and then as an afterthought, "though you have to promise not to let yourself go. You seem to have gained a little weight recently." She poked at his stomach, a grin betraying her serious features. He laughed, snaking his hand around her neck, pulling her closer, closer..._

_There was no question in his mind that they needed to survive this. He loved her too much for there to be any other option. _

* * *

A/N: I hope that wasn't too confusing alternating between present and flashbacks. I feel kind of bad that I'm starting this endeavor by killing Hawkeye... Ah, the Royai 100 themes. I don't know why I'm torturing myself with them, but I hope that you all at least enjoy the outcome. :)


	2. 73 Parting

They spend nights under their tents, taking comfort in companionship that was bred in battle until one day the order comes in. The alchemists are leaving Ishbal (leaving the sand, the blood, the deafening cries of a civilization once great). The war is nearing an end. There's no need for them, not when there are only a handful of insurgents to be taken care of (nothing left nothing left) and the foot soldiers are capable enough. Roy receives the news that morning along with the rest of the alchemists and the sun is piercing as he strains to hear the words above the twisting sands. They were the last to arrive and will be the first to leave. How horribly unfair.

They pack up their things with the swiftness their military discipline demands. Cots are stacked on vehicles, bags slung over shoulders, personal effects tucked neatly away. The absence of their tents is palpable; a gaping hole where men once slept. Roy finds Riza curled into the enclave where they first met (despite their familiarity they are new to one another - the children who played in her yard don't exist anymore), her fingers wrapped tightly around her sniper rifle, eyes trailing the horizon. Her words sound heavy on her tongue, as if each syllable is drained from her very existence. "You're being sent home."

Her gaze remains on the horizon, steadfast in the midst of the turmoil her body is making so heavily apparent to him. Each shift of her weight screams at him, begging, pleading; _Don't leave me here. Don't leave me here to rot. _He counts the seconds that go by, wishing desperately that he could somehow stop them if only to save them both from this separation. It's agonizing knowing the inevitability of their situation. He watches as she lifts her rifle, noting the subtleties of each movement she makes, taking inventory of each shallow breath that leaves her lungs gasping for air. He wants to believe that she'll survive in this hell, but the uncertainty is deafening. In an hour he'll be gone and they'll have given each other up to fate.

Her body tightens as she peers into the scope. He squints, but can't make out what it is that has her finger so stiff against the trigger. Even without the gun her eyesight is sharp, precise, just as everything about her is. She jokes to him that perhaps her body was born for this sort of work and he constantly fights the urge to shake her for it. She is too delicate for this life and yet here she is, bloodstained like the rest. Oh how he wishes he could take her away from all this and reverse the damage already done. Roy has always been idealistic, but his naivety is taken to new heights when it is Hawkeye who is concerned.

The shot rings out, an enemy (a civilian a person a life) only she can see falls to the ground. He flinches at the severity of her gaze as she turns towards him. "You're being sent home."

Smoke drifts lazily from the muzzle of her gun. He wonders if they'll ever see each other again.


	3. 98 After the Rain

"So who ranks higher now?" Roy declares, falling quite unceremoniously onto the ground in front of Maes' grave. The sun hangs lazy in the morning sky, rays mixing with the breeze, tangling in his hair. He unrolls the newspaper and lays it on top of the grass, making sure the headline is facing up. He wants Maes to be able to read it for himself, wherever he is. _Fuhrer Mustang Takes Office._

"After all these years...," he gazes up at the sky, reaching a hand to cover his face from the sting of the sunlight. It was still surreal to him, to be Fuhrer. There was an uneasiness in his stomach that he wasn't sure would ever go away. Too many years of waiting, of anticipating death around each corner. He wasn't sure he could get used to the calm, but he almost preferred that. Maybe the uneasiness was just a reminder of what it took for him to get here. A reminder of the things he'd lost.

"I've invited Gracia and Elysia over for dinner tonight. I hope you don't mind. Hawkeye has promised to cook some terribly complicated sounding thing, of which I suspect Gracia will have a great deal of input in preparing. The last time Hawkeye cooked for me it didn't go very well," he laughs. The image of his Lieutenant standing in his kitchen, spoon held exasperatedly out to her side, would be forever burned into his memory. How someone as proficient in everything as Riza Hawkeye could fail so miserably at cooking was an endearing mystery.

"Things are good now," he admits, "though they would certainly be better if you were here." It had been five years since Maes' death. Five years, countless battles, and one successfully reckless bid for Fuhrer between them, filling the space. "No one would be able to document this fiasco in photographs quite like you would," he smiles.

"Excuse me, Fuhrer."

He turns as the footsteps approach. "Time to go, Hawkeye?"

"Yes, sir," she reaches out her hand, "time to go."

Roy grasps her outstretched hand, standing as she graces him with an all too beautiful, albeit concerned, gaze. He shakes his head, he's fine, and sets his eyes once again on the gravestone.

"It's my wedding today, Maes, and as the best man you are required to attend. I expect to see you there." He feels Hawkeye squeeze his hand reassuringly, her eyes carefully roaming over his face for signs of distress. He chuckles and reaches out his free hand to gently caress her cheek. "Don't look so serious, Hawkeye. We could not have asked for a more beautiful day."

As he leads her out of the cemetery he imagines Maes clapping excitedly, grin spread from ear to ear, _you've finally got yourself a wife! _The sunlight dances upon them, warming at his back. He smiles.

What a strange place to be, here after the rain.

* * *

A/N: This was originally written for fma_fic_contest over at livejournal. The prompt was Rain with a 251 - 500 word count limit. When I wrote it I had the royai 100 theme in mind, so I feel it's fitting to include it in this collection. Something a little lighter in between all the angst that I'm sure is coming (which I'm terribly sorry for).


	4. 32 Shirt

If Roy were to say he completely hated everything about rainy days, he would be lying. For one, nasty weather allowed him to request a driver to escort him to his apartment and there was also that strange phenomenon where they didn't seem to have nearly as much work to do. In fact, rainy days would be quite preferable to sunny ones if only Hawkeye decided to wear a lighter colored shirt when she forgot her umbrella.

Unfortunately, her soaked black turtleneck would have to be enough.

"Did you try to swim to work today, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye scowled and Roy felt instantly threatened by his smaller, waterlogged subordinate. Had he ever known a time in their lives when she hadn't been heavily armed? It was military lore that Hawkeye came out of the womb sporting a handgun. It was also military lore that Roy Mustang had a thing for tempting fate. (And a thing for tempting Hawkeye.) Still, he was feeling generous today. "Give me your shirt."

The look Hawkeye gave him couldn't be described in words, but Roy might have likened it to the one a lion gave before mercilessly shredding its prey. He opened his palms towards her in an effort to appear harmless, but he could see she wasn't buying it and so he opted for further explanation instead. "Your shirt, Hawkeye. It is very wet and, unlike your jacket, cannot be discarded to drip endlessly onto the floor, costing this fine military establishment hundreds in recarpeting. And I cannot in good conscious have you suffer in it all day like some poor, drowned rat," at this her scowl deepened, but he pressed on, "lucky for you, I am quite versed in the ways of heat and as such, this humble servant of the people is offering to dry your shirt for you."

He flashed his most charming grin as Hawkeye considered him and then, slowly, she cautioned, "you won't burn it, will you?"

It was formed as a question, but Roy was not fooled. He nodded. "Of course not, Hawkeye. What do you take me for, some second rate alchemist? You of all people should know better than that." At this he gripped his chest, feigning hurt. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine, but I'm not parading around in here shirtless like some floozy. Give me your jacket."

Roy thought to protest, but his sense of self preservation could not be ignored and so he indulged her, albeit begrudgingly, reaching around the back of his chair and handing her his jacket. He folded his hands neatly on the desk and waited patiently for her to hand him her shirt, but was again treated to an incredulous look. "What?"

Hawkeye gripped the jacket tightly in her hand. "Turn around."

"I'm not some kid virgin, Hawkeye. I've seen breasts before."

"_Colonel Mustang._" Ah yes, the dreaded inflection of his title. A handy tactic. She had used it on more than one occasion to set him straight, with varying degrees of success. Fine, he could be civil.

"Your wish is my command, Lieutenant Hawkeye." He swiveled his chair quickly to face towards the window and was suddenly upset that the glare of the office lighting did not afford for a better viewing. He could sort of make out her form in the reflection, but details were fuzzy. Was she looking at him? He wasn't sure, nor could he decide if she was actually facing towards the window or if she had turned away (as much as he hoped for the former - a better chance at viewing what was under that tightly fitting turtleneck - it wouldn't do to have her realize he could (almost, not quite) see her). What he _could _tell, however, as a black shape lifted towards the air, was that she was taking off her shirt, right now, while they were alone in the office. Oh how he had dreamed of this day. Did he mention they were alone?

The wet garment was thrust into his arms as he turned around and found, to his disappointment, Hawkeye standing there in his military jacket. Her face betrayed in no way whether or not she knew of his amateur attempts at window peeping and he didn't ask. He studied the shirt in his hands for a moment, rubbing the fabric between his fingertips before turning his attention back to her.

"That jacket looks very becoming on you, Hawkeye," he chuckled. And it did, in a way. It was much too large on her and slouched around her shoulders, but Roy found the entire look to be a little bit adorable and all the more endearing. It gave her a feminine quality that he was not very accustomed to, but very much warmed by. Riza Hawkeye, gun toting First Lieutenant and terror of the military, a woman? How the men would gape at this uncovered knowledge. Too bad they were not here and this moment was afforded to him alone.

Too bad, but not really.

Hawkeye waited patiently while he set to work, shuffling papers and pens on the surface of his desk. Once it was reasonably clean he set her shirt on top of the desk, flattening it so each area was exposed in a way that would allow for optimal drying (or at least he hoped). Retrieving his gloves out of the top drawer, he stood and positioned himself over the shirt, sparing one last glance at his Lieutenant. For a moment he panicked; scenes of the office filled with fiery destruction and an angry, much more dangerous Lieutenant overwhelmed his imagination, but he did his best to brush them off. How many times had he done this before when he was younger and not able to request a driver? Countless times, he reminded himself.

Hawkeye cleared her throat and Roy took that opportunity to snap.

The flame that sprang from his fingers was different than the one he used for battle. It was much smaller, tamer, and it's brilliant oranges and reds did not dance so wildly as they did in Ishbal. It hovered in the air above his desk; the heat radiated against his face and it took no time for the water to be completely evaporated from her shirt, leaving nothing of the wet mess that lay there before.

Stifling the flame he reached down to grasp the shirt and offered it to her. "There, much better."

Hawkeye took the shirt from him, flipping it over in her hands as her critical eyes scanned its surface. Satisfied, she turned her gaze back towards him. "Thank you, Sir."

No inflection this time, he noted with delight. "You're very welcome, Hawkeye."

The smile she graced him with was small, but he appreciated it all the more when he noticed it spread to her eyes, crinkling the corners in that very rare way that made him feel absolutely privileged to be the one to cause it. She was happy with him and he should have stopped then, but Roy had never been good with respecting boundaries. "So," he ventured, "would you like me to do your pants next? You could let me watch you take them off as a reward this time, maybe let me get my hands around that tiny little waist of yours."

When Roy came to he was lying on the floor next to his desk with Havoc crouched above him, looking entirely too amused to be actually concerned. "You alright, Chief?"

Roy ran a hand across his face as he sat up, feeling the bruise on his left eye beginning to form. Hawkeye was nowhere to be seen, nor was her shirt, but his jacket was lying neatly folded at his feet underneath what appeared to be today's work. That woman had a sick sense of humor.

He turned his eyes back towards Havoc, who was still staring at him with feigned concern. Roy blinked and then, suddenly, his face twisted into a wicked grin. "I got Hawkeye to take off her shirt for me."

Havoc clapped a hand against his superior's shoulder. "Congratulations, Mustang," he laughed, "maybe next time she won't punch you?"

"That is the dream, Havoc," Roy chuckled as he stood, reaching for the jacket and papers as an afterthought. He spent the rest of the day recalling Hawkeye's blurred body through the window, trying to distinguish in his mind whether or not those flesh colored shapes had indeed been her breasts.

A/N: Originally titled "The Dream" for fma_fic_contest's humor prompt.


	5. 44 Hair

The air is thick with possibility, humidity that threatens rain that threatens to cleanse the entirety of Amestris with one dazzling stroke, wrap it up in grays and blues until there is nothing left but the soggy remains of a nation almost lost.

"Your hair was short once, when we were young," Roy says to Riza, balancing a folder in his left hand. She stares at him as if something is amiss, a peculiar statement for a peculiar morning. He doesn't know why he says it; it's not as if she doesn't recall.

"So was yours," she counters, finally, still with that look of concern set in her jaw line. Her hair is down, for once, and he can't help but want to run his fingers through it, to feel the sensation of skin against silky blonde that caresses her face in delicate lines down towards her collar. He is wearing his gloves, though; he is wearing his uniform, his medals - the marks of a great man gifted in times when he was not so great, when hardship and sin threatened to overflow. He touches a finger to them, cold, just for a moment, indulging in the perverse guilt he feels whenever he is reminded of the desert, the fire, this woman.

"I like it much better this way," he tells her, softly. He reaches a hand up into her hair and wraps a single strand around his index finger, hums in thought. "Yes. Much better." Riza stares at him calmly and his heart aches with this feeling of hope and dread and everything in between. His heart is in his throat, in the tips of his fingers, wanting to leap out and wrap itself around this woman, wrap her so tightly in himself that they are indistinguishable as two. He thinks then that maybe he'd feel satisfied, because nothing else will ever be enough - no time spent will ever be enough, nothing that passes between them will ever convey what he really wants to say: three little words and a thousand others. Even the feel of her hair underneath his fingertips, the whisper of a thrill he gets from the close proximity, does nothing to alleviate the weight on his chest. It _aches_.

Riza reaches up to tug at his bangs with a disapproving sigh. "I liked yours shorter," she tells him begrudgingly, "it was much more distinguished." He laughs.

"I thought women liked this sort of rugged scoundrel look?"

Riza shakes her head, "not all of them." He fights the urge to touch her face.

At 9 o'clock her hair goes up, stiff bun wrapped tightly with her brown clip, wrapped tightly to conceal three little words and a thousand others. Roy stares out the window at the clouded sky and thinks of childhood, of pumpkin spice kisses underneath brilliant reds and golds. Soon winter will be here and nothing will be left but him and her; nothing left but that silly little hair clip that sticks out so wildly against the blinding cover of snow.


End file.
